31 July 2005

After today's unbelievable game, it dawned on me. Manny isn't a selfish, soulless ear crapper. He's a misunderstood humanitarian with undiagnosed bipolar disorder. All the signs of classic manic-depression are there: The soaring highs and the lowest lows. The mood swings. From his low-energy shuffling to first base and deadpan refusal to help his team to his wild gleeful pointing at the crowd after his RBI today and the manic, gushing speech following the game: "Forget about the trade, man. This is where I want to be man. I told Terry man, if you need me, man, I'm here man." I admit it - it was the emotional rollercoaster Red Sox drama I love. It's the kind of excitement and passion that only a little mental illness can deliver.

28 July 2005

(photo: Caroline Mabon’s dog Olly was sickened by rat poison left at Brigham Park in East Boston by some asshole who is still at large)

It's the second installment of Cream Shop Friday - the feature that covers the week's biggest distraction. Just when you think it's safe to be a pooch in Eastie, some crazy fool mixes up some Disney Dixie cups of kibble and rat poison and strategically places them around the neighborhood dog park. An 11-month-old labrador named Olly survived after he ate some of the lethal snack but it's unclear if he'll experience any long-term side effects. Are dogs no longer safe to roam the streets of Eastie? A few months ago, one of my former neighbors (not JAL or MP, of course!!!) was arrested for shooting at two huskies that were peeing on his tomato plants. The neighbor, a bit nubby but usually amiable, admitted to polishing off several bottles of homemade wine before he unloaded his rifle. The dogs were not hurt, he only wanted to "scare them off." East Boston loves its crazies, even nurtures them. Loveable schizophrenics like Cheesy Mary, Uncle Bong, and Jimmy the Tit are part of Eastie folklore..but they've always been harmless toward resident canines. I just hope this latest offender is rounded up and euthanized as soon as possible.

27 July 2005

Vito has abandoned his worn out Nike sneakerillos in favor of newer, more pliable footwear. But as he spoons his flip flop during these hot summer nights, he can be sure it will not keep him warm come fall. These flip flops, after logging a few more miles on my pointy dinosaur feet, may disintegrate into something unrecognizable by Aug 1.

26 July 2005

(photo: "Bumrushed by the Elderly." Manny Ramirez cites "privacy concerns off the field" as reason for wanting to be traded.)

Meow, Meow, Meow. For the third time in four years, Manny Ramirez has expressed a desire to be traded from the Red Sox. In the Aug. 1 issue of Sports Illustrated, Tom Verducci will report that Ramirez reportedly told Red Sox officials he is unhappy in Boston, particularly because he feels he has no privacy in his life off the field. Hmm..letting the Boston Globe into your private home to photograph your son's bedroom seems like an odd way to express these concerns, but whatever Manny. Let him go, Theo. He's a phenomenal hitter with no soul. Pedro Martinez was a phenomenal pitcher with no soul. The whining is so not worth it. Hopefully these soulless ear crappers will eventually shit it on their own.

25 July 2005

As if shot from a cannon, Ricky Martin popped up in Amman, Jordan today, pledging to wage war on Arab stereotypes. "I will defend you and try to get rid of any stereotypes. I have been a victim of stereotypes," he told Arab teenagers attending a youth conference. Arabs worldwide, who have long struggled with the "gay-vague Latino pop star" stigma must be resting easier tonight in their kaffiyehs.

Brownguy stepped up to the plate and said, "Take that, beetch," knocking the ball clear out the Boston Common. His homerun lead the Renegades to a win over the other team. I know neither the final score nor the opposing team as I was too engrossed in New York Mag.

(photo: Cover, New York Magazine July 25, 2005)Cream Shop Friday. The name comes from a hilarious tale of distraction from Di's arsenal and it serves as the inspiration for a new a weekly feature on this blog. Cream Shop Friday will highlight the most powerful distraction of the week, a force so strong or creative, it could stop Vito from humping his throw pillow and take notice.This week's feature: Di whipping out New York Magazine during the Renegades softball game on the Boston Common, revealing the cover shot of crazies du jour TomKat. It caused such a stir, we almost missed Brownie's DONG.

20 July 2005

Tonight I had to watch two back-to-back episodes of Caillou -- pay-out on a bribe to Caroline for eating all of her chicken nugs. The show is a necessary evil: Caroline and Paulie love it and become absorbed with a catatonic focus at the opening notes of the annoying theme song. Unfortunately for me, Caillou's voice makes me want to put my head in the oven. For those unfamiliar with the show, Caillou is a narcissistic Canadian kid who at four years old is inexplicably bald. (Only Charlie Brown gets to be bald.) I shouldn't hold Caillou reponsible for all of my contempt as his parents, who indulge his every idiotic whim, are partly to blame. If Caillou wanted to wear swim trunks in a snowstorm, they'd let him so he could "learn" that he's cold. I'm certainly no role model parent but when Paulie tried to eat a daisy today, I didn't let him "learn" that it tasted like compost. I might be less agitated if every now and then Caillou's dad said, "I guess you're shit out of luck, Caillou." Or if we could see his mom taking a mid-day swig off a magnum of Sauvignon Blanc.

18 July 2005

It was blaring overhead at Dunkin Donuts at 6 a.m. today and since then, I haven't been able to expel it from my head: Easy Lover, that rancid duet from Phil Collins and Phil Bailey (still don't know who he is) from the late 1980s with the ultra low budget video, with promo posters to match (<<< see photo). Trying to work but all I can hear is "it's the only wa-ay, you'll ever kno-oh-oh-ow..ah.aaah."

16 July 2005

While there will be no bobbing for nips this year, Brownguy is bumrushing 35 with the same youthful zibba-zibba that inspired his birthday celebrations over the years. Reasons why we love the Brownguy: Loaf & Lohr dinners - The Body Show - Keri & Emma (check it out, Emma) - Mother's Day phone calls - Keeper of the kitty cash - Nazi Housekeeper - Junkyard Dog - mixes a mean dirty martini - Brownholio - LDTT. Happy mid-30s, my friend. Here's to proving we can still have fun AND be old as dirt as the same time. xo zz

15 July 2005

I learned this week that Bob Seger's "Old Time Rock-n-Roll" turns our friend Mike into Lou Ferigno with a throbbing head vein. The song "I Will Survive" fills LP with the desire to mortally wound those who point, shout and carry on whenever the song is played. We all have songs we dislike but then there are those songs that actually make us angry. The University of Waikato in New Zealand invites us to vent our anger for these crap tunes by nominating them for the "Worst Song in the World." The school is conducting a scientific research project into musical dislikes. However, instead of simply surveying people on what songs they hate, they take it step further and ask why.

In 2004, Blender Magazine named "We Built this City" by Starship as the worst song ever. While it's certainly an ass of a tune, it is no worse than Billy Ocean's "Get out of my Dreams, Get into my Car" -- a song that opens with a lyrical carjacking. "Hey you!...Get into my car!" With lyrics like "Hey Cinderella/Step in your Shoe" and "Smooth operator/Touch my bumper," this song is definitely a worst-in-the-world contender.

However, I'm going to nominate "Wonderful Tonight" by Eric Clapton and here's why: I won't even discuss the first two icky verses as they're merely foreplay for what Clapton is really after: A designated driver and a mommy who can take care of him when he gets really busted up at parties. The final verse: "It's time to go home now/and I've got an aching head/so I give her the car keys/and she helps me to bed/and then I tell her/as I turn out the light (ie, pass out cold)/my darling, you were wonderful tonight." The song ends there but I've always imagined the next verse would go something like: "I've got the bed spins/from 10 gin & tonics/So she rolls me over/so I won't choke on my vomit." Now that's romance.

12 July 2005

A good time was had by all at the annual family reunion -- affectionately called the Arab picnic -- as the Aziz-Rahaim clan convened in Plymouth for a family feast chock full of baba ghanoush and kibbie. Years ago, the reunion may have looked something like this. This year, there was no shortage of jokes that Homeland Security was staked out in the bushes to make sure we weren’t some terror cell on a jolly frolick. Caroline, (aka the Countess), looked around the beach, pointing at cousins: “One Ay-rab, two Ay-rabs, three Ay-rabs, four Ay-rabs...” Paulie has officially gone swarthy, his eyelashes have curled and thickened like his hair, his skin's olived-up nicely, leaving no trace of my Irish heritage.

(photos: Regarding the pool, Caroline says, "I like it!" Vito is sidelined after failing to stay afloat on a boogie board.)

For five weeks, we've shocked the hell out of this pool. It seems we've finally succeeded, transforming it from a toxic soup of chemicals, dead bugs and rotten leaves into a refreshing suburban oasis. It's finally the right shade of blue and appears to be sparkling clean. If all of our hair turns green or we come down with some kind of skin condition, we'll shut it down immediately. In the meantime, all are welcome for cannonballs off the deck. Let's make a whirlpool.

10 July 2005

I boarded the fast ferry off Nantucket with an iced coffee and a slight hangover and was pulled - as if by riptide - onto the streets of Hyannis before I could swim parallel to the shore and grab one last rum runner at the Tiki. It’s rare to have a group of friends that has only gotten better over the years. As far as this trip goes, it's like we've weeded the garden and the flowers can finally get some direct sunshine.

It seems our Annie is neither as shallow nor as cynical as we may have hoped. Our circle of friends, having fallen short of becoming rich or famous out of sheer laziness, is facing the harsh inevitability of a life without a beachfront home on Nantucket. Several of us -- naive fools who settled for love -- decided someone has to shelf the soul mate search and take one for the team. After all, it's just as easy to fall in love with someone who is filthy rich as it is to fall for someone who is just plain filthy. If Annie could look love in the eye, she just might flip it the bird. Add this to her intelligence and take-no-bullshit 'tude, we are thismuch closer to oceanfront real estate. At the Tiki on Nantucket, she was approached by a pale and ghoulish young "bond trader from Boston" who talked about BC in that glassy-eyed way Tom Cruise does about Scientology. [Insert swift indiscreet kick to Annie with a wedgie sandal - the traditional jackass alert] My alert was unncessary as I was confident that this manchild would wither like a petunia under Code Red's "wow. you're an idiot" gaze. Undeterred, he bought a round of frothy Fat Elvises and told us about his six million dollar home in Wauwinet. Maybe he's not so ghoulish. I think he's actually a bit tan. Maybe the whole BC cult-ish thing is a display of his unwavering devotion, not of glaring Eagle-philia. So what if he's got the personality of wet toast -- Annie, think about your friends! You'll learn to love him. No -- the selfish thing decided she'd rather NOT finish her Fat Elvis or endure any more of this idle chit-chat. Maybe Annie believes in love after all? That's ok, Annie..we won't tell anyone.

Fresh faced from Emerald Isle, Bags takes up the torch on Nantucket, cracking a Corona on the beach at 10 a.m. By noon, his boogie boarding shenanigans earned him the nickname Gidget as well as a trouser-load of wet sand. Two paws up!